when i told people that i was willingly volunteering to drive
with my brother cross-country—from california to nevada, utah, colorado,
nebraska, iowa and illinois—to move him back to chicago from LA, the reaction
was pretty much universal.

i’ll admit, the scenario paints a picture that is absolutely
ridiculous, if not absurd.

but to me, this was the chance of a lifetime.

the opportunity to leave the kids back at home, the daily
grind far behind, and for once, not worry about “leaning forward”— an overused
mantra in my industry mandating that we must constantly look forward, innovate,
stay up-to-date with every new device and technology or risk falling behind, and
into oblivion, for not keeping pace with the dizzying pace of change.

i was looking forward to simply sitting back.

some of my fondest memories of growing up were the rituals
of our family roadtrips. i can vividly remember hauling brand new copies of
“green eggs and ham” and “cat in the hat” in one hand, and my pillow and ragged
winnie the pooh bear in the other, as we piled into our wood-paneled station
wagon. in free-wheeling, 70s-style, we would lay the seats flat and spread out
across the back, occasionally looking up to watch the cars whiz past or pull
down our imaginary truck whistles when the 18-wheelers rolled by. we would pack
plenty of snacks: funyuns for my brother and fritos for me, and munch away as
my dad practiced his speech for the customs officers as we neared the border
into canada.

in those days, the journey was just as fun as the
destination. but now, we seek the quickest path from point a to b, and non-stop
flights are the travel method of choice. the trip itself is an annoyance, as we
brace ourselves for lines and traffic and wailing babies in the rows behind.

this time, i was just “along for the ride” so i wasn’t
bogged down by the usual “baggage,” save for a small overnight bag (…ok maybe
not that small as it had to fit a couple pairs of platforms for 2 nights out in
LA!) and my DSLR camera.

in the car, at early dawn in silver lake, as the sun was
beginning to rise over scattered palm trees and power lines, we plugged our
destination into the gps…and drove.

it’s hard to describe the feeling of having such a wide stretch
of open road before you.

we’d talk for hours. and sit silent for some. all while
taking in the awe-inspiring views that lay ahead.

so much time. without distraction. in your thoughts. in the
clouds. in the songs.

from towering mountains to rolling tumbleweeds, we immersed
ourselves in the colors, the patterns, the textures of each place—details surely
missed at 30,000 feet.

he drove and i shot…and shot…and shot.

when we think of states, the images usually conjured up are shapes
on a map, accents and archetypes, checkpoints to cross off en route to a
destination.

but this trip was magic.

on the road. “the air was soft, the stars so fine, the
promise of every cobbled alley so great, that i thought i was in a dream.”

and as for my brother, well, he was leaving home, and yet returning
to a place called home years ago. coming full circle.

“what is that feeling when you're driving away from people and they
recede on the plain till you see their specks dispersing? — it's the too-huge
world vaulting us, and it's good-bye. but we lean forward to the next crazy
venture beneath the skies.” –jack kerouac, "on the road"

I missed the shot. It’s been seven years since we went to Paris, but the image is still seared into my brain.

There we were, standing on the famed Boulevard Saint-Germain. The day was winding down and the street was just beginning to bustle with the energy of commuters weaving through the streets to make their way home. Friends clustered on sidewalk cafes, scarves artfully wrapped, lips primed and puckered for the double air-kiss greeting, and cheek bones accentuated by the long, deep drags of their cigarettes.

As we prepared to brave the busy intersection en route to Café de Flore, I saw her. She had a Vidal Sassoon-style bob. Smooth, glossy, perfectly coiffed despite her hurried pace and the slight breeze gently blowing through her hair. She wore a crisp navy blazer, perfectly tailored, with a striped boatneck tee peeking out from underneath. Skinny dark jeans, shiny black flats and a simple red scarf tied elegantly around her neck perfected the look. A cognac leather backpack adorned one shoulder, brass buckles gleaming in the sunlight and the flap shifted over to make room for a single, slender baguette sticking out of the top.

I hastily reached for my camera and fumbled over purse straps and lens caps. I quickened my pace to catch up to my muse. But as soon as the light changed to green, she was off. She walked briskly, confidently toward a balmy tree-lined side street, and by the time the viewfinder made contact with my eye, she was gone.

What was it about that image that I needed to capture? That I simply can’t forget all these years later? Sure she was attractive, but far from gorgeous. There was an undeniable elegance and effortlessness to her style. But that wasn’t even it…

It was the baguette. Totally jarring, unexpected. A big, fat middle finger pointing directly at our grab ‘n’ go, convenience-driven culture. In contrast to the sad loaf of hard but healthy sprouted grain Ezekiel bread in my fridge, this was a delectable surprise that offered a glimpse into Parisian life. Was this her routine? A post-work ritual, stopping in a favorite boulangerie to pick up her daily bread? Or was she planning a romantic picnic at the Luxembourg Gardens, racing to meet her lover with a wedge of Camembert and bottle of Beaujolais tucked away at the bottom of her knapsack? Or perhaps she was trying a new bouillabaisse recipe and hence needed a thirsty baguette to soak up all the flavors of the sea?

I have no idea. But the image gave me permission to dream. About her life. And mine. To contemplate what I wanted to take from this magical place, to savor and eventually bring home.

I missed the shot…well my camera did. But the image is still with me, along with countless others that shaped a tapestry of life as it should be lived.

The French call it “joie de vivre.” It’s not just about the beauty, but the ethos of the people and the place. The art of living: dressing without self-consciousness, eating without guilt, making time to laugh with friends in cafés, singing on street corners, or simply sitting in quiet contemplation.

Seven years later, I am reminded. We don't have to be in Paris to live like this...

I was thinking that this birthday called for a grandiose post about what I’ve learned in life or how it feels to be older and wiser. I covered my “7 Life Lessons” a couple months ago, so here I sit…contemplating what to write about.

To celebrate this milestone, we flew to South Beach and settled in at the Mondrian, a mecca of design and “all the pretty things” that capture Miami’s essence. The interior #werqs: black and white, shiny and fierce, a chill vibe and killer bayside view of Miami at sunset.

Being surrounded by all this gleaming brilliance is transcendent: it feels special and blindingly beautiful. It’s glitter and pixie dust. The stuff that dreams are made of…so when I looked at my nightstand, I found the most unexpected message.

“The mundane is to be cherished.”

Ok it’s more than slightly ironic that this weighty nugget of wisdom is being shared in the most opulent of environments. But I’d also like to think it’s fate. It’s my mantra, packed into a tight, pithy bold Helvetica package.

We can go away, surround ourselves with magic for a few cherished moments or days…but eventually we have to go home. The trick is taking it with you. The optimism. The chill. The sense of whimsy. The deep inhale and exhale. The inspiration in little things—simple things—wherever we are, whatever we’re doing.

another road trip. this time to celebrate a truly momentous occasion: my dad’s 75th birthday. a big party was planned. my brother was flying in from the west coast. loads of people had rsvp’d to attend this amazing milestone: three-quarters-of-a-century of a life well-lived, and largely devoted to enriching the lives of others through his warmth, eternal optimism, intellectual curiosity and legendary cooking.

the kids were giddy with excitement. the car was packed with the requisite road trip essentials: snacks, bottled water, pillow pets, and an assortment of tunes—from radiohead (oddly enough logan’s favorite lullaby music) to adele’s crooning to those damn “party rockers” who were “in the house” with us across 3 states(!)—designed to keep the monkeys in the back seat engaged and us awake during the boring trek across the interstate.

about an hour into the drive, after we just crossed over the bridge to the skyway, it started.

“are we there yet?”

“no honey. we’re still in illinois.”

“how much longer?”

“a long time. don’t worry about it. just enjoy the ride.” ugh…it’s going to be a looong drive, i thought to myself.

normally, i’d seize the opportunity to craft my speech for the event during the all too familiar, 5+ hour drive on the long stretch of toll roads from chicago to cleveland. but this time i wasn’t worried about what i was going to say. i had written an homage to my dad months earlier, “finding your inner zen: a portrait of domingo,” as a way of sharing what an incredible source of inspiration he has always been to me. i felt fortunate to be able to read it aloud in a room filled with loved ones who were gathered in his honor.

unlike my usual, down-to-the-wire antics, this time i was prepared well in advance...so my plan was to sink back into my seat and sleep long enough to wipe away a good chunk of time off the drive. i closed my eyes.

they were world’s apart, in years and life experiences. yet a similar reaction was echoed in both instances: “they lived life to the fullest. they touched people’s lives. and they were taken far too soon.”

i thought about my mom, who worked herself to the bone as a physician, only to finally retire and find herself with kidney failure, years of dialysis and not enough time to savor the fruits of her labor. she passed without ever laying eyes on rome, the eternal city, on her second grandson, on so many things that she would have loved and cherished. “she lived life to the fullest. she touched people’s lives. and she was taken far too soon.”

i looked out the window, eyes welling up. we zoomed past a bright, red, white and blue sign: “welcome to indiana, crossroads of america.”

“YAY! we’re in indiana! so we’re close now, right?” he was squealing with delight.

“um no, not even close.”

“ok so how much longer?”

“long. don’t worry about it. just relax. look out the window and enjoy the view.”

“awwww…ok fine.” pin, meet balloon.

a few miles later we came across a worn, but beautiful red barn. “hey guys, did you see those spotted cows? weren’t they adorable?”

“ohhhh so cute, mommy!” he was squealing again.

we filled the time between sing-alongs with views of neatly rolled haystacks on a blanket of light green grass, acres of golden cornfields, a massive semi accident that stopped us dead in our tracks for 45 minutes, and finally a breathtaking sunset before the boys finally started to drift off to sleep.

we were well into ohio now. monster yawns were heard from the back seat.

as he rubbed his bleary eyes and smacked his lips, he mustered one last attempt to gain certainty.

“ok i’m going to take a nap now. hopefully when i open my eyes we’ll be there…but can you please tell me how much longer?”

i didn’t answer. i paused to contemplate the question. when i peeked behind me a few minutes later, they were both fast asleep, peaceful and breathing deeply.

“how much longer?”

steve jobs’ sister gave a moving eulogy about their relationship and the person he was—not only as the most brilliant innovator but as a brother, as someone who cherished beauty above all else, who loved love and embraced learning.

she eloquently spoke how of his illness was a great reminder that “none of us knows for certain how long we’ll be here…we all—in the end—die in medias res. in the middle of a story. of many stories.”

but how many of us are savoring the chapters. living with intention. taking the time to pursue passions. appreciate loved ones. acting with the consciousness that at any moment, the plot may take a turn.

there will be smooth stretches, epic disasters, roadblocks, and hopefully some unexpected surprises. but if you’re forced to take a detour, no one may see the half-baked ideas formed, or hear the words you meant to say, but didn’t. you’ll only have who you are and what you’ve done up until that moment.

some people, like my dad, are thankfully blessed with rich lives and longevity. too many others are taken far too soon. either way, we are put on this earth. to learn from each other. to be inspired by each other. to appreciate beauty. to make the most of whatever time we are given.

when was the last time you were truly disconnected? from work. from email. from facebook and twitter. telephone and tv.

for me, it’s been a long, long while. when we planned a recent trip to belize, the resort promised wifi access from the pool, a plethora of cable channels on tv and all the modern comforts of home. perfect. I’d be able to relax and stay connected…

but after the first day at this tropical central american paradise, i began to ask myself: stay connected to what? the mind-numbing shows i watch to decompress from long days at work. the minutiae of people’s daily lives broadcast on facebook (which admittedly the creepster in me loves to scan to keep up with all my connections). the outlook in box and calendar alerts that keep me strapped to my desk from hours on end. the big lovely white watch that (though i love it for the beauty of the timepiece) ticks away the minutes as i move like an automaton from task to task and meal to meal until bedtime. wake up. rinse. repeat.

when you’re sitting on a deserted beach listening to the gentle waves of the caribbean lapping the white sandy shore, you have lots of time to think. for me, it wasn’t the deep, intellectual type of thoughts, but more fluid, unfettered, stream-of consciousness kind.

as i soaked in all of the “unbeliezable” sights (yes, one of their taglines actually is unbeliezable!—hilarious but actually pretty accurate if you ever lay eyes on this amazing country), one word kept popping into my mind: unplugged.

i was amazed at how easy it was to let go of all the drama. at&t’s outrageous international plan made it a no-brainer to sever the iphone appendage. for the first time ever, i didn’t take a single peek at email. checked facebook two or three times…and i was in utter bliss.

unplugged. my thoughts wandered to mtv. (it’s amazing how a couple of pina coladas can stir up the random thoughts). anyway, at the risk of dating myself, i can proudly say i’m a member of the mtv generation. the spectacle. the music matched to mind-blowing eye candy. who doesn’t remember waiting with baited breath for the ghoul-dancing, vincent price-laughing, moonwalking michael jackson in the world premier of "thriller." or boy george’s rainbow frocks and even more effervescent face as he shimmied his way through “karma chameleon.” or joe elliott’s union jack and acid washed rendition of “pour some sugar on me.” or robert palmer’s slicked-back seduction with “addicted to love” (hated the song but god those ladies were fierce!). and yes, steve perry crooning “faithfully” on a dark stage lit by moving spotlights and flickering lighters in the crowd.

but i digress…all of the bells and whistle of these early videos were awesome. but one of my all-time favorite mtv moments was actually an anti-spectacle.

nirvana. live and unplugged.

no pyrotechnics. no crazy outfits. no cristal popping gangsters. no smoke. no mirrors. no noise.